Colonization
by SterlingSuspenders
Summary: In making a life on New Vulcan, there are compromises to be made, and Vulcans unwilling to make them. The species' strong, upstanding pride could be its downfall. - Spirk slash
1. Peaceful Negotiation

**A/N: ALRIGHT, I FINALLY got around to writing that Spirk fic I promised. And it's actually CHAPTERED -gasp-**

**In my leafing through Star Trek 2009 fanfictions, I really didn't see many that covered the resettlement of the Vulcans, and, that seemed kind of odd, since there are so many directions to take that, so in this fic I cover the settlement of New Vulcan as I see it--the various compromises the Vulcans will have to make for the sake of survival, and the paths of evolution of the species. This is where the facts and feelings the culture has suppressed for thousands of years finally comes to the light.**

**Please tell me what you think, and enjoy.**

* * *

**_Colonization_**

**_Chapter I_**

**_Peaceful Negotiations_**The first thing Jim noticed about the new Vulcan colony planet was that it was hot—sinfully hot, and arid: a Vulcanesque climate that he'd only had the esteemed _privilege_ to read about. Secondly, he saw that Spock seems so at home here, eyes scanning the landscape in the same pensive silence he so often wore.

* * *

"How do you stand it?" Kirk breathes, popping the fabric of his uniform for ventilation.

"It is… familiar," Spock responds distantly, his voice rippling with a hint of some underlying confliction Kirk deems too personal to broach. He can see enough—the stiff, pained line of the Vulcan's shoulders pointing to the falter in his brow.

Spock steps carefully, and watches carefully, so as to not become too caught up in the similarity of the landscape. If he lets himself slip—if he finds himself distracted and gives himself time to forget—it becomes too easy to mistake the rock and soil of this new place of that of Vulcan, and reality is left to rear up with an unforgiving sharpness.

His people—what is left of his people—build: work by the sweat of their brow to mold and recast not only the society and metropolis of thousands of years of learning and life, but an entire race, whose culture and population is still reeling from the heady blow of genocide.

The are alone: orphaned survivors.

Jim's hand falls on his shoulder and he's met with that confident, disconcerting face that shouldered it's way into his life with a particularly… creative solution to the Kobayashi Maru. To think he'd be here today.

Fascinating.

"Spock—" Kirk begins, only to stammer and correct himself, "The other Spock—will be glad to see you."

He nods curtly, disengaging his focus from the surroundings. "You as well, I am sure."

It drives Kirk crazy—that blank look Spock wields so well. But there is something running underneath: some swell of emotions almost too strong to bear; Spock had proved that to Jim himself, more than once.

Actually, he's gotten pretty good at ciphering them out.

He leads Spock away from thought and open space with a gentle hand on his shoulder, ushering him into the swell of activity that is the building sight of the budding colonies. His grip is firm, reassuring, and Jim can feel the slightest of breaths pass through Spock, relaxing the slope of his shoulders by the tiniest fraction of an inch.

Though, Spock—of any generation—had proven himself to be anything but an easy man to get a hold of. With Ambassador Spock heading multiple facets of New Vulcan's colonization and construction, finding him outside of a meeting or away from his post was a near impossibility. However, he was always one to make time for an old friend.

"Ah, Jim—Spock," he greets, warmly ushering them to fall into step beside him. While neither of the Vulcans—neither of the Spocks—seem to recognize the bizarre atmosphere produced by their being in the same place at once, Jim is floundering in it, at a complete loss for how to address them separately.

As they wander, vast skeletons of scaffolding rise up before them in odd and magnificent shapes, each frame coated in a wide array of workers of all shapes, sizes—and species.

Spock's inquiring expression catches the eye of the Ambassador long before Jim is able to form a coherent question.

"The isolated superiority of our cultured must die with our planet—we are not enough to undertake this task on our own—if we want to survive, we must accept the helping hand these people have extended to us. We will preserve our culture as best we can, and let the new generations usher in a new age."

"I presume there are some who have not taken kindly to such a change," Spock comments, the slightest of grimness seeping into his expression; his hands remain carefully braced behind his back. At a glance, he looks to be the same Spock who stands so proudly on the bridge of the Enterprise, but there is a stiffness and a stillness brought on by the trip planet-side that goes beyond posture to breech the more private of emotions Spock would deny he has.

The Ambassador nods, and fearlessly allows concern to touch his eyes, and Kirk wonders mildly if the younger Spock will ever become like this.

"Protests have been made—and threats. We are an old breed; there are those who will fight change."

Finally embodying the stern, authoritative persona that earned him his rank, Kirk asks, "Anything serious?"

The Ambassador takes the time to glance between them, a thoughtful, pondering expression crossing his features.

Jim's look softens, and he smiles in that gentle, trustworthy way. "I've got a brooding Vulcan on my hands that I don't know what to do with, and I would really like my first officer back." Affectionate, as always, he drapes an arm across Spock's shoulders, flashing him a bright grin.

"On the contrary, Captain," Spock responds deliberately, "my mind is quite at ease regarding Vulcan colonization—I am, after all, overseeing the project myself." He nods respectively to his older counterpart, resettling somewhat contentedly into his stance.

The corners of the Ambassadors eyes crinkle in a bright expression that borders on laughter.

"Nothing has gotten out of hand," the Ambassador answers—answers but doesn't answer. And while Kirk takes note at the sidestepped answer, Spock seems to have fooled himself, the younger version falling somewhat more relaxed in his posture. Jim smiles dimly to himself; Spock hasn't realized how human his older self has become.

It is not much later that the Ambassador is called away from them, his attention being in high demand. He bids them a regretful farewell leaving them just a ways off from the construction sight, on a stout crag overlooking a wide and imposing stretch of open land, the beginnings of the settlement standing small and lonely inside it.

"Looks a lot like Vulcan, doesn't it?" he asks, somewhat tactlessly—but always with good intent.

Spock is turned in on himself—more so than usual. His quiet calculation borders on indecipherable.

"Its familiarity," he says after a time, "Only serves to make it all the more alien." Quietly, he murmurs, "It fools me into expecting what is not here." With an almost wide-eyed blink, he shakes off the concerned look Kirk casts him. "We should return to the ship, Captain. Matters here are well underway."

Shooting one last thoughtful look at his first officer, Kirk nods. He pulls out his communicator. "Go ahead and beam us up, Scotty."

A resounding, "aye, aye, Cap'n" rings from the device and they quickly find themselves blinded by the white of the transporter room.

"Well, isn't it a pleasure ta see your cheerful faces," Scotty remarks brightly, clapping Jim across the back. "And how goes things down there?"

He grins. "Not bad, not bad. How about here?"

"She's purrin' like a kitten, Cap'n." He swells with a puff of pride, patting the wall affectionately. "Just waitin' for your orders, sir."

"Great," Jim chimes, "Then how about we land the old girl, eh? I'd say another couple days here couldn't hurt." The Ambassador's avoidance to his question still hangs heavy in Jim's mind, and that old herculean instinct to offer assistance where it's needed serves as a nagging old pain.

"Captain," Spock interjects, in his own, dignified way; while his expression is unreadable, his shoulders are tense yet again and the line of his mouth is hard and straight, "With your permission, I would like to retire to my quarters for the remainder of the day.

Jim looks up in surprise. "Sure—go ahead."

He nods in response. "Thank you, Captain."

His is more than halfway to the turbolift before Jim catches up with him, and too distracted by his own thoughts to hear the ring of Jim's boots across the floor.

"Spock!"

Spock turns to see Jim only feet away, a puzzling expression contorting his features.

He speaks softly, casting a quick glance behind him to make sure they're alone. "Hey, are you gonna be okay?"

Surprised as he is, Spock doesn't let the comment faze him. "I assure you, Captain, I need only rest."

Considering the matter settled, he turns from Jim, managing only a few steps in his previous direction before Jim grabs his hand and all progress stops.

His own surprise is quickly drowned out by a spike of emotion too vivid and violent to be subdued by his typical barrier of mental blocks. It shoots through him from the connection, radiating up and down his spine and spinning in his skull, carrying with it a handful of vague, blurred images that stumbled over one another in a pell-mell rush of nonsensical sensation.

Taken aback by the force of emotions not his own, Spock's lungs work of their own accord, and the sudden, subconscious intake of breath is enough to make Jim pull back in alarm.

"Is everything alright, Spock?"

Swallowing down the swell of confusion and surprise beginning to flood him, he manages a hurried, "Fine, Captain," he swallows down embarrassment and flexes his fingers, finally fisting them against his palm and trying to ignore the faint pleasant tingle left behind. "I am simply fatigued after the trip planet-side. With your permission…" He glances at the turbolift, and Kirk takes a bashful step back.

"Yeah," he says, working to smooth the worry lines on his face, "Yeah, of course. Rest up, Spock—The bridge needs it's first officer."

"Aye, Captain."

Inside the turbolift, Spock runs fingers over his hand and struggles to make sense of himself.

The next day of Kirk's exploration begins without Spock—the Vulcan claiming to have personal matters to attend to on the surface. Instead, he goes with McCoy, accompanying the cantankerous doctor as he runs scan after scan of the area in search of the new, unknown, and certainly deadly diseases and life forms bound to be peppering the planet.

"Hey, Bones," he whispers jokingly, "It's a _rock_; I think we're safe." He chuckles lightly, only to be met with a particularly searing glance and a grouchy:

"This is a completely new planet, Jim—there's no telling what's safe."

Jim only smiles and shakes his head, taking the chance to wander.

There is a sort of pristine ideal of civilization—crystalline structures glimmering at the peak of a bare and rugged landscape: a utopia standing beautiful in a raw, brutal way. A society populated by elegant, advanced creatures of higher breeding and knowledge than the lowly human soul. This is the image the Vulcans create, even with their skeletal structures towering half-finished and lonely amongst so much empty space, they still form perfection this way. They are the diamond in the rough, the city in the rocks—they are everything and more so many can only dream of.

They are beautiful even in decay. Beautiful in tragedy. Beautiful in strife.

The Vulcan life beats on—its culture thriving still, even if secluded, isolated.

Alone.

Jim has envied Spock in the past—he envied him as a cadet, struggling to make his way to the top and looking up at he accomplished face of those who'd beat him to it; he envied him as an unorthodox First Officer, when he was trapped so close to what he wanted, and still answering to the men with all the power; he'd envied him as a frozen, abandoned prisoner on Delta Vega, made to see the proud and established man Spock could work to become—or would work to become, or had worked to become.

He envies nothing of him now, because he is haunted by the memory of Spock looking out with bitter love over the landscape of New Vulcan pained by a kind of desperation.

A kind of desperation that meant he would never be able to bring himself to live there.

A smattering of testy complaints and one trek through the new construction site later, Jim finds Spock consulting with his father and the rest of the council of elders—the group tucked just a little ways off the main path in an alleyway formed by two half-buildings.

His cheerful advance is stopped by grim expressions and muted voices.

"…increased violence… unrest… rioting…"

He strains to hear.

"…deaths."

Jim stiffens, turning to Bones, who wears the same, aggravated worry-creases that seem to be his default.

"Ah, to hell with this," Bones grumbles, fiddling with his tricorder, "God knows I have better things to do than keep you from sticking your nose where I already know you're going to stick it anyways." He heads towards something that mildly resembles dying plant life and waves Jim away.

Chuckling, Jim leaves Bones to his work and starts to make his way toward the group just as Sarek catches sight of him. "Captain Kirk," the old Vulcan says in greeting, giving a calm nod in his direction.

With an awkward cough, Kirk hurries to close the distance between them, casting a self-conscious glance along the skyline of headless buildings making up the surroundings. "Is, ah, everything alright here?"

Spock speaks quickly, cutting off his father's response. "Construction is running smoothly, Captain. With the supplies Starfleet sent they should not require our presence here many days longer."

Jim tries not to take any personal offence in the way the real issue was sidestepped, only urging, "What about interspecies relations?"

Sarek steps in for this one, shooting his son a glance that—by human standards at least—seems lacking in meaning. Kirk, however, notices the shock of stiffness added to Spock's stance.

Carefully crafting his sentences, Sarek begins, "It would be… untrue to say things have not escalated far past uneasy. We have done what we could to contain the incidents, but…"

Kirk's expression drops to something very, very hard. "But."

"But, there has been bloodshed for which we cannot account or excuse. On both sides now. I fear things may have long passed any hope of diplomacy. If peace is not regained swiftly, we will make enemies long before we have any means to defend ourselves from them." He pauses to release a heavy breath, expelling with it a shameful confession. "Pride runs too rampant through some of us. It is through our own arrogance we breed contempt and bruise benign natures—instigate violence in a time where we can withstand nothing but peace. Already, we have made enemies of many of the other species residing here. We cannot… we cannot manage such a crisis on our own."

Kirk nods thoughtfully, his eyebrows furrowing together. "I guess it's lucky for you you've got Starfleet on your side," he says with a manufactured sort of cheerfulness that runs dark in a deeper vein. "Well do everything we can."

He glances to his First Officer, landing a supportive hand on his shoulder. The orders came gently—more question than command. "Mr. Spock—walk with me."

Spock nods, and with a brief exchange of formal goodbyes, the pair heads off in a nonspecific direction, conversing in low voices and keeping close together.

His brow only barely mussed by a furrow of thought, Sarek's eye follows the casual contact. His questions, he keeps to himself.

-

"You gonna be alright?" Jim asks softly; more tightly gripping the Vulcan's shoulder.

"Captain, I assure you, I am fine. Should the elders require our assistance here, I am perfectly willing to give it." He settles his hands at the small of his back, looking composed, refined, professional.

"But you don't want to," Jim says, with a certainty that causes Spock to falter, "You don't want to stay here."

He hesitantly opens his mouth in an attempt to reply, but McCoy cuts him off, plodding his gruff, grouchy way toward them.

"Anything new, Bones?" Jim greets good-naturedly.

Crossing his arms over his chest, McCoy sighs, "Oh, just your typical array of maladies and parasites, so far. But I'm sure I'll find _something_."

Jim laughs and claps him across the back. "Well, in the mean time, you can come with us. We could use your help with something."

Casting a cynical, suspicious look at Jim, Bones asks, "And that would be what?"

"We've got some angry colonists on our hands; the Vulcan High Council wants our help to settle things."

-

The colonists are not a difficult bunch to find. Furious and raging, they are proud of their involvement in the resistance.

A number of them are gathered in a campsite not far form the western edge of the construction project: a large and ragged group with a smattering of species—Andorians, Bajorans, Ferengi, Tholians, Betazoids, even Klingons—though they are few in number and clustered off to themselves.

The sight of Spock sets things into motion. There is a violent ripple of under-toned whispers and antagonizing stares. Kirk shoulders his way into the heart of this, his command gold uniform gleaning an ethereal yellow in the shift of the firelight.

He comes to a stop in the midst of the hostile thrum and his voice rings out with that undeniable tenor of authority that turns all ears to him.

"We're here on behalf of the federation." All at once his tone softens to a smoother, more charismatic quality—the tone that turns trust to loyalty; skepticism to trust. "We want to talk, that's all."

There is a wave of muttered conversation, as the mass undulates to the rhythm of each wary gaze and stiffened stance. Starting from a spot in the back, the waters part to make way for the broad shoulders of a large figure—unmistakably Cardassian.

"Then you'll want to talk to me," he bellows in a low, gruff, abrasive way. He closes the gap, leering over Kirk by a good five or six inches. While Kirk remains unfazed and unflinching, the two by his side turn tense in an instant, waiting for the Cardassian to make a move.

"Sir," Kirk says levelly: his best mediator voice, "We only want to hear what you have to say."

The Cardassian's gaze darts to Spock and his eyes harden. "The Vulcan should leave."

Spock shifts as if to move, but the arm Kirk throws in front of him stops him. "The _Vulcan_ is my First Officer and my friend, and will remain here with me; any act against him will be considered an act against Starfleet for which you and your men will be immediately arrested."

The Cardassian's eyes widen at the hostility underlying Kirk's voice—surprised, but impressed—only to narrow again with mistrust and grudge-ridden fury.

"I am James T. Kirk, Captain of the Starship Enterprise. This is First Officer Spock and Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy." They each nod in turn, Bones looking calmer than he feels, Spock looking calmer than he should.

The animosity radiating off the crowd around them is stifling; they watch with fury as their eyes dart venomously between Captain and First Officer.

"My name is Takar," the Cardassian offers, somewhat guardedly, "And this," he pauses to glance around them, "Is the resistance."

"Yes, we know," Kirk says, mostly to himself. "We're here for the sake of negotiating peace between the Vulcans and your people."

Takar snorts and settles himself on a bench constructed out of excess raw materials. "Peace?" He asks in a mutedly disgusted way. "Peace was all we asked for—and _this_ is what we got."

It's only now that Kirk realizes that most of the group is bruised and bloodied, only now that he sees the myriad of cuts and scrapes that look infected and the homemade splints and casts made from scrap boards and tattered fabrics. It's a battered army, lined with tired, wounded faces and heavy, swollen limbs.

Sympathy staining his voice, Kirk says, "We're here to do what we can."

"And what good is that?" Takar growls, "The word of the military? What has that gotten us?"

"Believe me, I understand the bad blood—" Kirk is unable to even get the sentence out before Takar snarls out:

"You understand nothing!" His voice turns low and hateful, and in his eyes smolders the most vicious kind of hate—born from pain gone too long unavenged and unredeemed. "_You_ did not watch a brother fall to one of those _creatures_." He points cruelly at Spock, who flinches just the tiniest, almost undetectable bit. "What does a race of emotionless scholars have to gain from killing my people? Inside, they are only the same, soulless marauders as their ancestors." He draws himself to his feet.

"Show some respect," Kirk snarls.

"Captain," Spock murmurs under his breath, a brief flash of anxiety underlying the tone, "my presence here is only serving to agitate—"

"No, Spock," Kirk answers: loudly, and unabashed. Turning his sights on Takar and his men, he tells them, "My First Officer has nothing to do with what you are facing. Show some discretion." He quiets, his gaze gone dark and thoughtful—conflicted. Murmuring so that only those closest can hear he says, "My father died at the hands of a Romulan named Nero—died so that me, my mother, and hundreds of passengers and crew would survive. I've lived since the day I was born without a father. Don't talk like you're the only one who's lost."

Cautiously and with an edge of wary respect, Takar says, "I apologize."

Returning once more to the stiff, elegant posture of professional finesse, Kirk continues. "The Vulcans have lost their planet and their people. They _know_ pain. Now—we're here in an attempt to negotiate peace. You're going to have to share the same planet; you might as well get used to the idea of sharing the same air."

"With all due respect, _Captain_—we have fought only in self-defense. We refuse to make any promises of peace when we are still in danger of attack each time we step away from our work."

"I understand that. I only want your word that your people won't be instigating any fights." Finally, Kirk seems more relaxed; he is in his element—undefeated and unmatched. "And should we get Vulcan cooperation, we ask that you agree to a treaty."

There is a weighty pause where the Cardassian eyes him as if sizing him up. "We are agreed."

"Great," Kirk says cheerfully, his relaxation going to extremes, "Glad to hear it. That's all, then—sorry for the bother." He turns to leave, but Takar calls him back.

"Captain," he says, still somewhat sarcastic in the use of the term, "Do not be under the impression that I will not protect my people should the need arise."

Kirk smiles brightly, and connects the gap with the clap of an allying hand on the Cardassian's shoulder. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

* * *

A/N: just sort of laying the groundwork here. Things really get rolling come the next chapter, but we had to have some set up or it was never going to work.

I'm trying to keep this at five chapters max, but since in my writing I'm already at chapter 4, I may overstep a bit.

Hope you enjoyed!!


	2. Animosity

**A/N: Okay, so I was going to wait at least a week before I posted chapter two, but my rewrite of it came out SOOOOO much better than I had expected, and i'm too proud of it not to show it off, so here you go--you have my ego to thank for an early chapter ahahaha.**

* * *

_Colonization_

_Chapter Two_

_Animosity_

* * *

The fight erupts too quickly to circumvent.

A young Betazoid woman swipes beads of sweat from her brow, making her way down the scaffolding with practiced ease. Two feet from the ground she stops, tenses, turns her head slowly and nervously to take in the sight of a pair of Vulcan males sauntering towards her.

They are young, for Vulcans, their limbs still thin and sinewy with boyhood, but tall and broad enough to still look imposing—the surreal strength in those pubescent arms is something too gruesome for contemplating.

She offers up a wary hello, and they say nothing—press their way in and corner her against the framework, a wicked look on each face. They murmur to her in low voices that Spock can't make out from a distance, and it is when he turns away to notify his captain that shouts break out from below.

A Klingon has shouldered his way onto the scene, shouting booming threats at the pair that look blankly back at him. They move with terrible accuracy—their speed and strength a sickening wonder. They attack as one in a sort of terrifying dance, the shorter of the two diving at his legs as the taller launches at the Klingon's chest. He is on the ground before either Starfleet officer can so much as reach for his phaser.

A windy roar rings out as a pair of boney knees press the air from the Klingon's lungs. His arms flail in desperation, and the young Vulcan takes each blow, his face contorting only slightly at each impact. It's not long before the smaller of the two disentangles himself from the thrashing legs of the Vulcan to stand panting above the creature's head, his feet apart and his hands fisted. He looks only briefly at his companion and the one on the Klingon's chest gives something like a nod, and all at once fists rain down on the Klingon's breastbone as the toe of the smaller Vulcan's shoe slams against his ear.

His ear pops, and he roars out what breath he has left, straining for more, and the punches keep coming—aimed at his face now—as the foot poises itself to strike again.

And all the while the Vulcan's faces remain eerily unmarred by emotion. Their brows meet in concentration, their teeth clench with the beat of the fight, but their eyes remain windowless hollows of well-masked dark intent.

These are Vulcans Kirk can't read, and he can't help the shiver that dances down his spine.

The damage created in the instant it takes Spock and Kirk to draw their weapons and show themselves is striking. Blood mats the dust in small viscous flecks and patches. The Klingon's eyes are rolling as blood streams from his nose and he weakens in his fight to replenish his air.

The Vulcans stare calmly at the phasers, the one at the Klingon's head slowly placing his foot back on the ground while the other sits back against the Klingon's chest and watches somewhat bemusedly, cracking his bloodied knuckles. They move only to brush the dust off their clothes, smearing blood in its stead.

"Bones!" Kirk screams into his communicator, keeping his phaser on the Vulcans, "get a medical team here _now_!" He stuffs the communicator into its holster, freeing up his hand to run it vexedly through his hair. "Damn it!"

He watches the Vulcans and feels his breath catch in his chest. He's seen killers before—seen people who reveled in what they did, seen people who found sport in it; seen psychopaths who sought comfort or redemption or self-identity.

But never had he seen eyes so cold attack so ravenously without so much as a sound.

McCoy and Takar arrived on the scene at virtually the same time, Bones shouldering Takar out of the way—("_damn it, man—I'm a doctor")_—as he knelt to care for his patient.

Takar turns then to Jim. (_"I thought you were here to __**stop**__this!)_—to the Vulcans—(_"__**Animals!**__ Goddamn, lowly—")_

One of Bones' men holds Takar back as he bellows and yells in a voice that seems distant to Jim's ears.

McCoy looks over the Klingon with the deep line of anxiety that only comes into full flower in times of crisis nestling between his brows.

(_"… bones broken, Jim.")_

A steady hum settles into his ears as his eyes flash between blood and Vulcan, killer and prey, between friend and foe and ally and innocent. Flash to the Betazoid girl with her face in her hands, sobs tearing from her in subdued bursts. She shakes her head and curls her shoulders inward, shields herself from the world.

_("Severe hemorrhaging.")_

The Vulcans are still looking at him with hauntingly empty eyes. They are too daring. They want to be caught, the want to kill, they—

_("…should notify the Council, sir.")_

The pounding of blood in his ears that's drowning him quiets to a dull whisper and he feels as though he's been pulled from under water. Spock is at his side, the faintest of creases in the line of his brow. His hand ghosts across his Captain's shoulder—jolting him from his stupor, insuring he's alright, looking for something he can't even name—all for just one instant.

"We should inform the elders that we have caught a pair of the instigators, Captain."

"You're right, Mr. Spock," he murmurs with a mouth that's dry and clumsy. Clearing his throat, he brings his communicator to his mouth.

"Scotty," he says curtly, with a weak attempt at vibrato that only barely succeeds. "Please give the Vulcan High Council our coordinates."

"We're not the only ones," the Vulcan on the right, the one who had been perched on the Klingon's chest, says suddenly. "Your imprisoning us will not benefit your cause."

"That is not our intention," Spock says, closing the gap between them in smooth, steady strides. In a blindingly swift motion, he stuns the one on the right, bringing his full attention to the other as the Vulcan hits the ground.

"Good God, man," Bones exclaims, but his outburst is lost in the crackle of tense silence rippling through the onlookers.

Phaser clutched in his left hand, he digs the barrel of it into the flesh of the Vulcan's stomach and raises his right hand.

The Vulcan's eyes widen marginally. "You—" he began, but didn't finish: interrupted by the pressing of Spock's fingers to his psi-points and the rush of the mind meld. A spasm ripples through the young Vulcan and not long after the phaser drops from Spock's hand. It moves, almost liquidly, to join the first hand on the Vulcan's face just before another shudder rips through him.

The breathless half-minute erupts with a scream, the young Vulcan convulsing under Spock's touch. Seconds tick by in hours and finally, jarringly, Spock pulls his hands away. The Vulcan falls to his knees, and Spock staggers back from him.

"Scum!" He screams at Spock and his voice cracks. He turns his head up to meet the first officer's gaze and rage contorts his features. "Worthless! _Half-breed_!" He curls into himself and snarls when two men grab at his arms to pull him to his feet.

"Traitor," he breaths, his voice falling low and hateful. He spits at Spock's feet. "Just like your father—but what better can one expect from a _mutt_ like you?"

Spock's gone stiff: unaware of Jim at his side. Unconsciously, he slumps against the support of Jim's offered arm and struggles to catch his breath.

"Spock," Jim says urgently, tightening his grip around his friend, "_Spock_."

After a moment, Spock steadies his feet, levering himself off of Jim. "I am alright, Captain—I know where the rouge group is meeting."

His eyes still wide with worry, Jim swallows and nods. "Very good, Mr. Spock."

Spock is fully composed by the time the Vulcan High Council arrives, while the stunned Vulcan is blearily coming to.

The sight of the battered Klingon on the ground—a handful of medical officers still buzzing around him—makes the pieces easy to put together. Sarek looks darkly at the two Vulcans.

The head of the Council's voice booms out with wicked hollowness.

"There will be consequences."

The Vulcan Spock had melded with yanks away from the two restraining him, standing proud and defiant.

"I fear no punishment you have to inflict. I have fought for our people, our _culture_, and that is more than I can credit you."

As the Council and guards take the offenders away, Takar storms up to Kirk, broiling.

"You _swore_ to me you would prevent this kind of bloodshed," he shouts heatedly. His arm flies out to gesture grandly at the Klingon, now being moved onto a stretcher a few yards away. "That was one of my best men! Now he'll be down for who knows how long, and we can't afford—"

"Just hold on a minute, Mr. Foreman," McCoy interjects, with a hint of his own brand of sarcasm seeping through despite the grave situation, "There's nothing here we can't fix. He'll be on his feet again in no time."

There's a grumbled, almost-apology from Takar before he stomps his way over to the medical team to get a look at the damage.

"Captain," Spock murmurs to Jim, "Please do not speak of what you have seen here."

"Why not?" Jim whispers back, "Spock, that was genius!"

Spock shakes his head gravely and Jim feels the smile die on his lips. "It was—improper, and something I would not have resorted to under normal circumstances." Spock doesn't meet his eye.

Kirk thinks back to the Vulcan's reaction, to the violent way he tried to fight off the meld, and feels a grim understanding clutch in his stomach. "You did what you had to, Spock."

Bones levers himself up, brushing his palms on his pants. "He should be safe to move, now. Poor bastard—they really did a number on him." He takes a deep breath. "Damn Takar and his men insisted they'd take it from here; I'd have liked to get a look at him from onboard Enterprise, but…" He glances at the Klingon again before returning his attention to Jim. "So what now?"

Jim looks at Spock. "Where to, Spock?"

"They are camped near a collapsed structure in a previous construction site that was deemed unsuitable due to unsteady ground. It is a short walk from here."

"Lead the way."

Spock hesitates. "Their numbers are great, sir. It is unlikely that we will fare well should there be… violence."

Brightly, Kirk chimes, "Guess we ought to bring Bones along then, huh?" He claps the doctor on the back and Bones rolls his eyes.

"I'll get the med-kit," he groans.

They are interrupted by a young ensign saluting his way between them. "Captain," the boy sputters, "Due to the recent occurrences, we feel it would be unwise for you to—to continue without a proper team, sir. You're already outside of regulation and—"

"This is New Vulcan, ensign—we're here for diplomatic purposes. It hardly counts as a routine mission."

The boy is wide eyed and nervous, his posture that of utmost professionalism. "I—I know that, sir, but especially with the violence that is going on, the crew feels it no longer can turn a blind eye to the situation. For the sake of your _safety,_ sir, we ask that you comply with some form of regulation and allow more members to accompany you."

Spock looks almost bemusedly at his Captain. "The ensign is already well aware of your typical aversion of the rules, Captain—he has come prepared."

Kirk sighs. "Alright, alright, you win! But they're not going to do anything to me; they're a logical people—they already know that offing me will just bring Starfleet down on their heads! You're all being entirely too cautious!"

The ensign looks horrified. Bones rolls his eyes. "Try not to traumatize the poor kid, will ya Jim? You'll just land him with me and I've already got enough on my table."

By the time they set off for the Vulcan camp, their three man party is three men bigger and Kirk is trying not to let his feathers get too ruffled over the turn of events. Though, the unintentional comedy of McCoy's muttered comments manages to get him through it.

Kirk saunters into the camp with his head held high, looking cool and calm and sure of himself.

It's no surprise the camp hasn't risen any sort of suspicion: it's one of about three dozen campsites scattered out of view from the main construction area, and it's too small to raise any alarms.

But it's too big to be easily countered.

A young, impulsive set steps forward almost immediately to enclose them in a vague, lopsided circle to match the vague, lopsided quirk of their mouths. The older onlookers glance between one another with a mild, careless disapproval.

"We saw what you did to Solvar," one says, leaning in towards Spock with a muted triumph glinting in the darks of his eyes. "You possess no self-restrain, do you?"

Spock is blank, his hands clasped a little too tightly behind his back. "I did only what was necessary for the sake of establishing steadier relations."

"What would Sarek think if he knew of your actions? Would he consider them to be so… necessary?" It's a new voice, chiming in with monotone cruelty.

"I might ask the same of you," Spock says tightly, "How would the Council view your cult, if they knew the extent of your betrayal?"

"Betrayal?" The voices come from all sides, "What we have done is no betrayal! _We_ are the only ones _left_ still fighting for the sake of the Vulcan race!"

"The knowledge of our actions is not yours to flaunt! You stole it!"

He looks at them with blank solidarity. "It is mine all the same."

"It is treachery!" This voice boarders on a snarl. The Vulcans surround them now, in a tight and gapless circle that ripples with waves of hate and accusation. "And if the High Council knew of your methods they would not let it stand."

"And what of your crimes? You should find yourselves blessed you do not already have a war on your hands."

"It is war we seek."

"Better a war than this."

"There is no logic in such a standpoint."

Bones crosses his arms against his chest and casts a wary glance around them. "I don't think they really give a damn about the logic of it, Spock."

Kirk tries to get between them and Spock, clearing his throat and rolling back his shoulders in his best officer-of-the-law imitation. "We are not here to—"

One of the Vulcans steps right up to him, stopping so they're all but nose to nose. So close, the hatred in his eyes is unmistakable, forcing Kirk to swallow down something like fear. "You were not given permission to speak, _human_," the Vulcan spits.

Spock shoves himself between them, something very different about his expression and stance—something furious, something barely contained. "Control yourself," he barks at the Vulcan, who sneers in response.

"Your opinion has no merit," he murmurs to Spock, in a tone low and empty and hollow and haunting. "You turned from your own people to pander to humans."

"It must feel nice to be the most intellectual, the most accomplished." Spock reels to face the voice, but can't pick out the speaker among the crowd. Already there are new voices speaking.

"Had you joined the Academy, you might have made something of yourself here. Instead you go off with these creatures—lower yourself to their level."

The set of Spock's jaw is hard. "You are suggesting I have not made anything of myself at Starfleet, when quite the contrary, I have—"

"Played traitor to your own race. The steps you took this morning were proof enough of your skewed loyalties."

"You have no respect for custom."

"You will never be anything more than a mongrel. To think your poor, faulty father still has faith in you."

"So, Spock," it's the one directly in front of them again. He's face to face with Spock, the cruel, wicked grin spreading unbridled and unsuppressed across his face. "How does it feel to bow to James T. Kirk?"

In a sudden burst, Spock lurches forward only to have Jim catch his arms. The difference in strength drags the Captain along with him until Spock manages to skid to an off-kilter stop. Behind them, the three newcomers to their party look on with a conflicted terror, their hands itching at the hilts of their phasers but still under order not to draw them.

"Spock," Kirk breathes urgently, looking him over before letting him go, "we can't afford a fight _now_."

Slowly—stiffly—Spock eases out of his offensive stance, though the muscles of his back remain taut. "My," he swallows, "apologies, Captain."

Mockery gleams bright in the otherwise empty eyes of the Vulcans surrounding them. Even the older onlookers, who until now had offered up nothing in way of response, were glancing knowingly between themselves, turning their collective gaze to Spock.

"We don't want to infringe on your culture," Kirk calls out diplomatically, "We want only to come to an agreement."

One of the older onlookers pulls himself regally to his feet. "What would we serve to gain from an agreement with you? Would the humans be the next to invade our culture?"

"Jim," Bones murmurs cautiously, watching the Vulcans around them, "Maybe it's time to go."

The group of Vulcans is pressing in on them one at a time, edging too close for comfort. They are outnumbered in droves and the claustrophobic leering bears down on them with malicious intent.

"You should step more carefully, Spock," says the one who grinned so openly, "Your new friends are fragile."

Spock stiffens noticeably. "It would appear we are not welcome here, Captain."

Even distance was not enough to ease the tension.

Spock's drawn from his thoughts by a muted tapping on the doors to his quarters which slide open to reveal Kirk standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Spock," he says, finishing the word with a clearing of his throat.

"Captain."

Jim runs a hand through his hair. "What they said to you, today," he begins, but Spock cuts him off.

"It was nothing I had not heard before." He pauses, fiddling briefly with the hem of his science officer blues. "Things were much simpler after I joined Starfleet."

Jim nods. "You and me both," he says with a tired smile, finally taking the initiative to step inside the room.

Spock sits down and watches his knees while Jim coughs and shifts and hunts for the words to start off on.

Spock beats him to it. "I knew many of them. There were… some I had accounted among my friends."

Kirk finds himself wishing Spock would drop the poker face and the monotone just once—surprises himself with the ferocity of the impulse.

"We're still here for you, Spock."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Jim."

Spock's brows furrow in curiosity.

A small chuckle escapes Jim's lips. "No one's watching—no one's citing regulation. Call me Jim."

"Jim," Spock says blankly, as if tasting the word.

"That's it." The smile engulfs Jim's whole face, but as he looks at Spock the small falls, an oddly somber expression sinking into its place. "Thank you," he says suddenly, "Thank you—you've put up with a lot of abuse these last few days: most of it on my account. I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

"Cap—Jim; I was merely performing my duty as First Officer. I see no reason for you to assume responsibility for—"

"I mean it, Spock." Jim catches his arm, and for an instant he's only inches away from the ice blue eyes so hauntingly set on him. He represses the shiver—represses all thought—takes a small step back and remembers how to breathe. "I couldn't do this without you." The captain seems oblivious to his first officer's predicament—oblivious to the shortness of his breath, oblivious or ignoring it, talking himself out of it, because he continues on with that same reckless pace he always goes with. Because he tightens his grip as if that's supposed to make things easier. "And I'm sorry I just stood there when I could have…"

Spock finds himself pulling out of the hold and directing his attention to the intricacies of the carpeting. "Captain, please stop"—_haunting, teasing, taunting_—he swallows, "worrying over my condition. I assure you my mental stability is quite sound. They say nothing they have not already said."

"Damn it, Spock," Jim growls in quiet frustration, "I _know_ your mental health is fine—your mental health is _always_ fine; you're a _Vulcan_ for Christ's sakes. I'm talking about _emotionally_—remember? Those human feelings you pretend not to have?"

Jim _knows_ he's going too far; he _knows_ Spock has done nothing to deserve this right now—knows Spock sure in hell doesn't _need_ this right now—but he can't stop himself.

Spock, of course, comes prepared with a perfectly logical answer. "Vulcan children are taught from a young age to suppress any excess—"

"_Vulcan_ children, Spock. You're still half-human, whether you want to be or not. I've seen you angry, Spock—I've made you angry. You damn near started a blood feud today, and you sure as hell didn't do it with logic. I know you've got a temper so that means everything else has to be hiding in there _some_where!" A flustered sigh breaks through the thin line of his lips. "Damn it, Spock—you're half human no matter what they've told you to be! And it's okay to admit that every once in a while. I like—I like knowing you're not just empty."

Spock's gaze stays trained on Kirk, who's eyes scan the carpet, as each chest breathes in—out. For all Jim could tell, those two breaths might as well have been an eternity.

Suddenly, solidly, Spock says, "I need to show you something." He pauses as Jim's eyes leave the carpet to meet his, and his voice drops lower until he almost can't hear himself. "And I need to see something. If you would permit me."

"Of course, Spock," Jim murmurs, afraid to break the spell should he speak too loud.

A thousand questions and doubts rush from Spock's chest on the breath of his lungs: scattering and dispersing, diluted by the open plain of the air.

He reaches up, carefully laying a hand across Jim's face finger by finger—ghosting lightly over his skin. He looks at Jim—a silent request—and Jim chances the smallest of nods but doesn't dare open his mouth to speak.

Spock applies pressure to the touch, streaming into Jim's consciousness with a task in mind, but he is distracted—overwhelmed: drowned by the rush and the intensity of all that is his captain, everything seen and unseen, everything said, unsaid, lied.

A pounding, steady drumbeat, each echo laced with pride and willfulness and adrenaline—with security and confidence and self-assurance.

And hesitancy, and bravado.

There is the resounding clock-tick that strains for the drumbeat. A clock-tick of thought reaching to make itself heard—to make itself solid and substantial. To attain the pound that drives it on.

Freedom. _Freedom. __**Freedom.**_

The goal, the ideal, the heartbeat.

_The Enterprise_.

The rush of adrenaline that couples itself with the theft of a cherry red convertible. Breaking free of the norm—haunting bars, starting fights:

The textbook definition of freedom as defined by James Tiberius Kirk.

Freer than chasing fathers and chasing dreams.

To chase, instead, the breath of the wind all the way to the edge of the world in the front seat of a cheap antique that looked much better totaled.

Telling a stepfather to go to Hell and finally being the bad boy for the first time in his life.

_Not_ trying to live up to the echo of his father; _not_ trying to outlast a legend; _not_ trying to be worth what a dead man left behind.

Jim is full of sensation—of wild cries for attention and one-night-stands—

Not wanting to admit he still remembers all of their names, and everything they ever told him. Even—especially—the ones that lied. Not wanting to admit the times he's dialed in fake numbers the morning after or the sick sound of a synthetic voice suggesting he try his call again. How many he never saw again.

Making the trick his own.

With retribution comes self-fulfillment comes understanding comes approval.

He was always seeking approval, even after he gave up on the things of which respectable society approved.

He would always have a hero for a father.

A dead hero for a father.

No damn sense of responsibility for a father.

Live free and die young.

Live free.

Free, free, free.

Free of guilt where guilt is due: free spirit free of attachment.

Toting around his father's old academy textbooks everywhere he went even before he knew how to read—promising his mother he'd join Starfleet someday. Growing up and purposefully breaking her heart.

He still remembers packing those books in his suitcase the day he ran away from home and hauling them from apartment to apartment and—_damn_ they were heavy—memorizing them one volume at a time.

Setting them down in a pile in his quarters, next to the stack of the textbooks and handbooks from his own academy days—mom , I hope you're proud—gathering dust like everything else.

George Kirk was captain of a Starship for twelve minutes, and Jim has yet to live up to his legacy.

Freedom, freedom, freedom—is a fallacy.

Freedom is a fraud.

There is the shy, self-conscious press of Jim's conscience nudging against his own—curious and unsure and questioning. The turned-inward demeanor of a child who's revealed his most treasured of secrets, and expects—worries—to be seen differently.

Gently, Spock coaxes Jim forward, and he can feel the tug of the motivation as Jim roves in search of something not bound in the logic by which he has been so rigidly instructed.

If it is for something human Jim searches, he's found it—he walks through Spock's childhood: past bullies and mothers and low expectations. Self-doubt. Proving himself to be different despite countless attempts, wishes, wants, to simply blend in. A child alone.

Spock walks beside him, forging a path through Jim's memories—past accusations and expectations and always falling in line despite knowing he could be better. Self-pity. Fading into the backdrop despite his own ambitions. One of many.

Jim sees each corner of Spock's mind—every edge of it rooted in logic and progressive, reliable thought: an anchor in turbulent times.

Jim's mind stands rooted in ideals and aspirations: meant to light the way when all light it lost.

To the foolhardy boy who doesn't believe in no-win situations, Spock serves as the only possibly way to keep him sane, while the ostracized nomad clings to Jim as his anchor.

Jim explores, now fully confident and aware of his motions and explorations of the other's mind, controlling his own psyche in a way infinitely more masterful than he ever had before.

**I can see… you. I don't understand what this means.**

Joy and wonderment drifts from Jim in waves, tangling with Spock, melting into him. There are flashes of academy days flying in from both sides until neither can tell who the memory belongs to. Days of teaching and learning and—bending, breaking, outdoing, outsmarting—the rules. Days of reading, of not reading, of showing up early, of joining class late. Every experience is _theirs_ now—belonging to both of them: thoughts intertwined.

_It means… I want to be seen._

Spock is looking at himself—his childhood self—knees tucked under his chin in front of a broad mirror. He sits almost completely still, searching himself for _something_. Searching his eyes, searching his nose, his cheeks. One hand drifts up slowly, thumb and forefinger pinching along the line of his pointed ear. He looks at it, tugs gently on it, covers the tip with the palm of his hand. Turns his head and looks at himself again. The ear is curved, gentle, human. _Flawed_. He yanks his hand away and buries his face in his knees and forgets everything: the mirror, the laughter, the world. Being human—being human he forgets, because he has to. Because wanting to be human is wrong.

**And… can you see me?**

There are papers—papers everywhere. Torn papers, whole papers, crumpled, shredded, stomped papers. An entire cabinet of papers flung over and dented and destroyed. The too loud sound of heavy breathing and heavy heartbeats in a heavy head. The crack of small kneecaps against the ground when legs give out, blurs that swell across the scope of vision before trailing their way down flushed cheeks, slapping against paper. Paper everywhere. He curls against the paper, breathes in the long-stale scent of fingers and filing cabinets and regulation. What Starfleet must smell like. Letters: all of them. From his father. To his father. About his father. All of them stamped with the same little insignia of the Federation. All of them on the same starch stationary, all of them professionally, unprofessionally, apologetically signed. Forcing himself to try and remember a face he'd never even seen.

_The meld is mutual... Are you… ashamed of what you are?_

So there were girls—a lot of girls. Some that he, at least, assumed were girls, but once you step outside the bounds of the human race it starts getting difficult to tell exactly what gender anything is. It all starts as an outlet that becomes an obsession that becomes a psychological, or a physiological or a biological need—an emotional hunger. And as much as he tries to play it cool, early along down the line it stops being about sex, stops being about the chance to rebel. At some point it starts cutting into what high-dollar psychologists would refer to as the affection-starved hauntings of a boy who never knew his father. In the end it turns down right shameful: some point after you start asking yourself how you could have ever stood to stoop so low.

**I'm ashamed of what I'm not.**

He beat everyone—trumped them all. _Damn_ their expectations, he is no mongrel. He is no mutt. He's better than all of them _damn it_, why does no one _see_ it? It's never enough. He dances circles around their arithmetic, makes their grasp on grammar look _infantile_; he provides analysis and interpretation than would have even the most adept of minds scrabbling to keep up. But it is not an entirely Vulcan accomplishment, and thus—has no merit. As he has grown up, he's found himself to be nothing but his flaws.

_No one expects you to be flawless, Jim—you are too headstrong by far._

He wasn't sure when the gene kicked in with him—maybe it had always been present—but after joining the academy, Jim had gotten downright obsessive. Different obsessions: crucial obsessions along with petty obsessions that kept him occupied even on the dullest of days. The Kobayashi Maru, for one, was enough to keep him entertained for months—even if it was a flustered, frustrated sort of entertainment. Now he has the Enterprise, and it's an entirely new animal. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Utterly his, and damn, does that feel good. Just one more thing to obsess over—one more thing to fight for, and claim with pride.

**Was that a joke, Spock? I think I heard you laugh.**

_That would be impossible, Captain, as nothing has been said aloud._

**So you did laugh.**

_I believe I have not said anything to lead you to such a conclusion._

Swells of tangled emotion surge between them—Kirk's oceans of pride, of worry, of elation and confliction and amusement and hurt all snaking through Spock: coiling around his own collection of subliminal feelings and fanning them all to life.

His mind reaches for Kirk's unabashed—drawn in by the recklessness of Jim's nature. There is no hesitation, no reticence.

Until—

He shrinks back, away from Jim, away from their connection, redirecting Kirk's attention to a different memory, a different emotion. Anything—any distracter. Because the place Jim started going—the wave of guilt and pain and self-affliction Jim started to breach, is something he can't see—can't touch, can't know. Something no one can.

And he feels the raw flare of hurt go unchecked for only a moment from Jim before the young captain tries to convince himself out of taking it personally, and he wishes he could share it, wishes he could free himself of it. But he knows he can't. It is a weight that is his alone to bear.

So he encircles Jim instead—encircles him with appreciation and gratitude. He guides him forward into his mind's hidden crevices, into secrets too intimate, too shameful, too deeply buried for words. All of them. All save one. And slowly but surely Jim forgives him and ushers him forward into the farthest realms of his memory and mind until separating themselves out becomes a difficult task.

But they do, eventually, and they fall back into their respective frames left a little lonely in the afterglow.

As Spock pulls his fingers away, the smile stretching itself across Jim's face could light worlds. It's mussed, a few moments later, by a flicker of bitterness rippling over the pane of his expression. He laughs mirthlessly to himself, his eyes on his lap and asks, "Is this what it was like? When you melded with Solvar?"

A wildness seeps into Spock's eyes—an entirely human panic to the way he widens his eyes and opens his mouth, to the way he won't pull his hands away from Jim's arms even when proper Vulcan etiquette and ceremony frowns on the contact.

"No," he murmurs, his voice rough and hushed; a break from the Vulcan monotone—something human, something desperate and daring.

Something that stemmed from Jim.

"No," he says again, his voice stronger now, though perhaps a bit colder, more monotone, more Vulcan. "I probed Solvar's mind for only what was necessary. It was—unpleasant. He fought me and… took more of my own thought than I had intended to give." His hands slowly slide down Jim's arms, making only brief, fleeting contact with Jim's knuckles before letting him go. Even from the small touch, there's a bright flare of _something_ reflecting and ricocheting through them both. One of those things typical decorum requires they both attempt to ignore. One of those things it's almost impossible to.

"Get some sleep, Spock," Jim says warmly, briefly gripping Spock's shoulders. "We're going to bad against tomorrow." He pauses. "And thanks. Again. For… all of it."

"Aye, Captain." He stops himself. "You are welcome—Jim."

* * *

A/N: OKAY, so I'm sososo proud of that mindmeld scene, and I try not to beg for reviews but PLEASE let me know what you thought of it! I've never written anything of that nature before and I'd really like to hear your thoughts on how I handled it! Thanks


	3. Underhanded

**A/N: ACK! So sorry this took so long to get to you, but GUESS WHAT? In this chapter we have some real, blatant, SLASHY SPIRKY SLASH. YAY! I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

**_Colonization_**

**_Chapter Three_**

**_Underhanded_**

* * *

"Sir, with all due respect—anything you do to these men now will only have worse consequences later." Kirk looks professional, composed, but the glint in his eye and the tic in his jaw betray his frustration. "They are _rogue_, sir, and they aren't afraid to turn on you or anyone else who gets between them and what they want."

The head of the council looks down his nose at Kirk, a distinct sense of superiority blossoming in his voice that the cool mask of his face cannot contain. Or maybe Jim has just gotten better at reading Vulcans—he likes to think it's a little bit of both. The council head scoffs. "They may be reckless, Captain, but they are vastly outnumbered. Any outright attack would be quashed before it even began."

"It won't _be_ an outright attack," Kirk urges, stepping forward, "You're dealing with your own people; you _know_ they're too smart for that."

"With age comes the wisdom to outsmart inflamed zealots."

"And with each new generation comes zealots smarter than the last," he's swallowing down frustration best he can, but his stance has only become more rigid, and his nails are trying to bite crescents in the palm of his hand. "This isn't just some ragtag group of rebels. This is organized, and this is dangerous."

"These are _children_," the elder chimes condescendingly, "And their tantrums will not be indulged nor tolerated. We have two of their members—they will be made an example of."

"You have no idea what a mistake that would be!" Now openly flustered, Jim turns to Spock with a look of desperation.

Spock steps forward, unflinching as the eyes of the council turn one by one on him. They are dark looks, disgusted looks—looks of Vulcans who still chafe at the thought of his rebellion in joining Starfleet. His father's gaze is the most ambiguous—lacking the disapproving element gleaming from all the others. He watches, instead, with a black concentration.

"I mean no disrespect,"—the care with which he crafts his words is unmistakably present on his face—"but so brash an action would be unwise. The uprising has already proven it's reliance on instinct above logic for the sake of their ends. Provoking them could result only in disaster. I request that, for the time being, the captives remain imprisoned until a less abrasive method is found to handle them."

The head of the council is quick to correct him. "I assure you, such cautionary measures will not be necessary—"

Sarek interrupts them. "I agree with their assessment. We should not let our own insecurities lead us to rash action."

A female member pulls herself to her feet, saying, "You are biased, Sarek. Your own son stands before you—you would not refuse him."

The look on Sarek's face borders on an emotion, though one both Kirk and Spock find nearly impossible to read. "_You_ are biased: in your own prejudice against his heritage. Our very species and culture is falling apart—will we catalyze it?"

Spock feels taken aback—the council's unity degrading before him seems as if he is watching his own culture cave in on itself. He casts a conflicted look at Jim who nods in support, watching solemnly as the council bickers over matters which should be discussed.

Those of the new uprising are not the only Vulcans who are letting the primordial sway of emotions get the better of them.

"Stop!" Kirk calls suddenly, making all the Vulcans in the room flinch. Spock shoots a questioning glance his way. "What good are you to your people like this? They are relying on _you_ to lay the foundations of their society. And so long as we are here, they are relying on _us_ to keep the peace. Let _us_ handled things for now—let us _fix_ it. Before things get worse."

Grudgingly, the head elder nods to him. "Well said, Captain. Very well. You have a week until we take matters into our own hands."

"Thank you, sir." With hurried bows, Kirk and Spock leave the council, conversing in low voices on what, in actuality, could be done against the Vulcan uprising in their current situation. With no other ships in the vicinity to provide them with backup within the week, and no real method of combating the splinter group head-on, they're left at something of a loss.

Jim waits until they are well away from the council to let the smile break out across his face. Looking over to Spock, he says, "You're father stood up for you, back there."

"Yes," Spock says with a hesitant sort of uncertainty—one well-masked by the near-monotone of his speech. One Jim would have to be immeasurably thick to miss. "Things are changing." He pauses. "I have never seen the council behave in such a manner. I find myself incapable of comprehending the logic behind—"

Jim interrupts him, laying a gentle hand between Spock's shoulders. "I don't think they understand, either." His hand shifts up to grip the base of his shoulder, and the soft brush of his thumb against the skin of Spock's neck is enough to send across brief waves of the soothing comfort Jim is trying to relay. It is a conscious struggle not to sink into it—not to relax into Jim's hold and envelop himself in everything that is Jim and simply forget the twisted events going on around him. Jim is still talking, but Spock feels the words more than hears them.

"Vulcan is gone—things have gone past logic. You're not the only one hurting—but they're not like you, Spock. They're not half-human. They don't understand what it means to feel pain: not this kind of pain. They aren't handling it too well."

Slowly, measuredly—struggling to keep his head above the warm waters of Jim's presence—Spock says, "They should be endeavoring for the betterment of the colonies."

"They're trying," Jim assures him, and shifts his thumb in a way that's almost a kind of tender display. "Even the group we're here to stop is trying. The only difference is that they're dangerous, and we have to stop them as quick as we can."

Spock quickens his pace just enough to slip out of Jim's hold, coming to a stop as soon as the last echo of the warmth of his hand is gone. He looks down at the rocky soil, his shoulders only slightly slumped, his back only minutely curved, the skin between his eyes creased only to the fraction of a millimeter—just enough for Jim to see.

"My own roots have become unstable."

-

Despite his scattered attempts at bravado, Kirk can feel his own unease and discomfort creeping up on him, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if Spock's worry is rubbing off on him. No matter how solid the mask of Vulcan impassiveness he puts on, Jim can feel his unease crackling around him in a cloud that borders on tangible.

The crew is at their stations on the bridge, checking and double checking in the hopes that the sensors have missed something and that there is, in fact, another Starfleet vessel within the same system. Proving and reproving time and time again that they're on their own on this one, and that things sure as hell aren't going to be easy.

As Spock walks past, Jim catches his arm to murmur lowly, "Would you _relax_? You're giving _me_ an ulcer."

"Apologies, Captain," Spock replies hollowly, "The atmosphere here is… unsettling."

Jim sighs and releases Spock's arm. Keeping his voice too low for the rest of the bustling crew to hear him, he answers, "Yeah, I know what you mean. It's like everyone's waiting for the other side to make a move, but no one's stepped forward yet, and it's starting to freak me out."

Spock nods, rearranging the positioning of his belt with a nervous calmness only a Vulcan could muster. But there's a lie in the smooth line of his brow, and a pseudo-repose lingering along the slope of his shoulders.

Tactlessly speaking his mind with that casual, yet somehow smug and prideful air indigenous to Captain James T. Kirk, he mutters, "I guess we can see what generations of suppressing emotions gets us. Overload."

Shifting in his stance as if smoothing ruffled feathers, Spock rebuts, "My people have existed in intellectual peace for thousands of—"

Kirk holds up his hands in surrender. "I'm not trying to be an ass, Spock—I'm just putting it out there. Obviously, the Vulcan purging of emotions isn't total. And what we're dealing with right now is dangerous." He pauses. "And very human."

Blankly—tensely—Spock asks, "What are you suggesting, Captain?"

It's the formality that catches Jim's attention. "Nothing, Mr. Spock," he says dismissively, "Nothing."

A time passes as he watches the activity around him—as he feels Spock's eyes boring through him in spades. Its length is stretched taught between them, balancing tense discomfort along the fragile expanse.

Jim was not expecting Spock to be the one to snap it.

"What is going on here is not the fault of my culture." He isn't sure why, but Kirk is almost surprised by the possessive.

The words fly from his mouth of his own accord—driven on by unease and lack of sleep and indignance that after all the worry and attention he's paid to Spock's well-being, he should be given this now. "Your culture," he snaps back—always a slave to pride, "was a disaster in the making."

Spock stands with his shoulders rolled back, chest extended in some primal, physical one-ups man ship Kirk has no hope to win. It is will all the control he possesses that he manages to keep his voice low enough to not attract any more of the bridges attention than they already have. "And now, _sir_?" His voice has only the faintest and most dangerous traces of venom. "Disaster _has_ struck, and not at the hand of my culture, but by _me_. _I_ was unable to reach Romulus in time; _I _was the one who set Nero out for blood. _Me._ Me and my own half-breed imperfections."

Jim comes to a tumbling stop, all but gaping at the Vulcan. The scattered shards of his pride come crashing down around him, burying their dagger points in the dry ice sensation that's cracking apart his stomach.

"Spock," he stammers meekly, "That wasn't you; that was—"

Spock cuts him off, quiet and reserved and against lacking any betrayal of emotion. By now, near all of the crew members on the bridge have noticed them, and while some try to politely continue their work, there are enough eyes on them to make Jim's discomfort manifest. Spock is unmoved.

"Whether or not it was me of the present or a self from a different time does not excuse it. It has been done, and it has cost my people everything."

This was what he had seen—the ragged, unhealed wound Spock couldn't bring himself to show Jim, even when he'd shown him everything else. The weight of the guilt Spock had been silently shouldering hits Jim like a wave, and can hardly get a coherent thought together to rebut it.

"Spock, you _can't_—"

Finally speaking at his normal volume, Spock says, almost mechanically, "Captain, I request permission to be excused from the bridge."

"Granted," he says so quietly he can hardly hear himself. Spock paces stiffly away into the turbolift, and nothing Jim could say could possibly bring him back.

Nothing, at least, that Jim could put words to.

-

"The hell's the matter with him?" Bones barks under his breath, snatching Jim by the arm as their paths intersect in the mess hall to redirect him to an empty table. They stop next to it and set down their trays, but they don't sit. McCoy casts a glance at Spock, dining at a table largely by himself on the other side, with young science-blue ensigns dropping by his table now and again to ask a question or two before being scared off by the unusually icy demeanor of the First Officer.

"He's been nothing but a pain in the ass since you two got back here, and _you've_ been moping around like a kid to match. What the hell is wrong with you two? Damn it, Jim—the whole crew is stressed enough as it is without their first and second in command behaving like infants. And _I_ can't handle all the injuries I've got on my hands _and_ deal with you two at the same time!"

Jim laughs as he takes his seat, but it's wearing thin, and his 100-watt smile is less than beaming these days. "Sorry, Bones," he says with a lie of cheerfulness in his tone, "Nothing to worry about—just a little trouble on surface."

"Like hell it is." Bones crosses his arms and glares down at Jim a moment longer before taking his seat. "I don't know what this is, but work it out before you piss everyone off."

They don't have long of eating in silence before Kirk catches sight of Spock pulling himself to his feet and striding stiffly from the mess. Almost without meaning to, he casts a helpless look at Bones who, with a somewhat flustered softening of his expression, sighs, "Jim—go talk to 'im."

McCoy watches Jim stand, looking not at all like the Captain Bones knows him to be, and finds himself praying to God that the damn hobgoblin has a heart on him afterall.

-

The last thing Jim can bring himself to do is knock—and he briefly eyes the keypad beside the door, entertaining a thought he's not truly contemplating. Barging his way in by way of Captain's pass codes seems more uncouth than practical.

After at least a good five minutes of mustering up just enough courage to chicken out at the last possible second, Jim forces himself to rap his knuckles against the metallic surface of the door, holds his breath, and waits.

Waits for the longest twenty seconds imaginable.

The doors swipe open to reveal his first officer, looking blank and stiff and somewhat empty. Jim finds himself trying not to swallow his words.

"Spock," he says apologetically—finally letting himself drop the professional façade. "I'm sorry—what I said, it was… I'm sorry."

Spock blinks down at him, his expression unchanging. His voice chillingly… blank. "I have not taken offence, Captain. You are only human."

Struggling to keep his voice level, Kirk barks, "Don't pull that superior bullshit with me—and don't treat me like I'm stupid."

His face like stone, Spock responds, "Apologies, Captain. It was not my intention to imply—"

"Stop that!" Kirk snaps, and Spock gives a minute cock of the head that Jim supposes is supposed to be a question. "You know damn well what," he mutters, mostly to himself, before continuing. "Can we please talk? Seems like we haven't talked in a while."

"No, we have not… I shared my mind with you." The last phrase is added softly—a side note Jim was likely not truly meant to hear.

"But you hid this from me," Jim murmurs, his tone finally falling to something tender.

"It was… personal."

"It wasn't something you should have been trying to shoulder alone." Jim shifts awkwardly in the doorway. "Please let me in, Spock."

With only a hint of hesitation, Spock nods and steps aside. "Aye, Captain."

"Jim," Kirk insists softly, before stepping into the room. "I'm not here on business—I'm here as a friend."

Spock pauses again to study Kirk—Kirk and his entire demeanor and intention and emotion, or whatever it is he's come to display—before speaking. "My thanks… Jim."

Taking his place uncomfortably at the heart of the room, Jim watches Spock—and the gentle slope of the Vulcan's shoulders gives nothing away; his face is cool, and calm. And porcelain.

And Jim will be damned if he doesn't find a way to egg the human out. "I'm sorry," he starts again, with a weighty exhale of breath.

"You have already stated—"

"_Spock,_" Jim groans as he draws his hand frustratedly across his face. "I don't know what to say. You shouldn't… carry this by yourself. Can you just… _talk_ to me? I didn't even know about this until…" He stops, runs his hands anxiously through hair already mussed by the same action. "How can I help?"

"I'm afraid I do not understand the question."

"Let me help! Just let me… _do something_. Knowing you've been shouldering guilt like this all on your own while I've done nothing… I feel useless."

Spock hesitates. "Captain, I am unsure—"

"Damn it, Spock, would you quit that crap? What are you so afraid of? You've proved it to me before—I _know_ you feel more than this, and don't pull that Vulcans-have-no-feelings bullshit on me! Why does it scare you so bad?"

While he hadn't been aware of stepping forward, Jim realizes he's pushed far past the bounds of personal space, to the point where he has to tilt his head up to hold eye contact.

Spock looks away. "Not fear," he says quietly. "Shame."

When Spock again looks at him, a swell of emotions surges untamed in the facets of his eyes. Emotions that do not touch his face or his voice, but _fuel_ him: drive him in a way no full-blooded Vulcan could hope to understand. They are his purpose, his sanity—what carries him from day to day and thought to thought. They are a part of him.

They are his humanity.

And he is a creature of pride and high upstanding. He carries himself with dignity and adopts an air both regal and refined. It is his upbringing, weighing on him with a heavy hand whilst his pride and humanity rage against his in a juxtaposition of forces that would tear any weaker man apart.

Jim doesn't have time to feel shock when his hands move of their own accord to seize the fabric of Spock's science-officer blues. He doesn't have the time or the discipline to think around the heady air of instinct and adrenaline weaving together through his veins. He has no time to reprimand the body that moves independent of his mind to fist in Spock's collar and drag the taller man down. Doesn't have time to question—hardly has time to savor—as their lips crash together in a crescendo of sub-layered feelings flooding to the light. He doesn't have time to feel selfish as he holds Spock there for a brief, heatedly possessive instant.

_Mine._

Control and sense flood back to him only once their mouths part, while he's still left to stagger in the dizzying aftermath of the most baffling knee-jerk reaction he's ever experience. It's then he's able to question, to realize, to step back as a terror of mixed nature takes hold of his heart. He uses one hand to shove himself away from Spock, throwing the other across his mouth and not daring to look away from the carpet.

"_Christ_, Spock—I'm… I'm—_shit_, I'm sorry," he stammers out, tucking both arms in against him and turning away—running fingers through his hair in a frantic, pell-mell rush of emotions too tangled to even try at sorting through. "I didn't mean to—_Jesus,_ they can _fire_ me for stunts like this." He stumbles through hurried sets of "Shit, I thought I'd finished with this back at the academy" and "Spock, I'm so sorry" and "sexual harassment in the workplace—_Jesus Christ—"_

And Spock stops him, snatching at his shoulders to spin Jim around and hold him in place so they're nose to nose. His hands move, cautious and confident all at the same time. They shift up to ghost across Jim's neck so that he fights to suppress his shiver, and settle against his jaw to cup his face and force Jim to meet his eyes. In them is a more murky and wanton expression than Kirk ever thought Spock capable of.

And his hands are _hot_—fire against Jim's human skin. Fever-hot. Desert-hot. The most beautiful, delicious heat Jim thinks he's ever experienced—driving him crazy until he clutches at the arms holding him as if in attempt to beg.

Through their contact, Jim feels flashes—all that pride and proper upbringing, mixed in with the background static brought on by waves of guilt, slurring together with a dark, animalistic, greedy emotion that snatches the breath from his lungs.

Spock draws Jim to him in a way too desperate and hungry to be anything but human—claims his mouth and claims _him_: his territory, his anchor—better than home.

He _feels_ Jim—the bands of personality, live and vibrant under the skin of his cheeks, his chin—under the shadow of his eyelashes, in the farthest corner of his mouth. Spock soaks in him, him and the oppressive human instinct strong enough to stir his own to life.

Understanding, hardship: an imperfect human leading an imperfect life, teaching an imperfect Vulcan the perfection of being imperfect.

He feels Jim's emotion as clearly as he feels Jim's hand snake up his back—as keenly as he feels the other reach out to clasp one of his: to hold it and touch it was a tenderness that fills him in a way he can't explain.

They separate—to breathe, to see, to step away from the moment just to prove it's all real.

Spock takes Jim's hand in both his own, running his fingers along it and memorizing every line—savoring each ripple of sensation. His eyes drift closed in blissful concentration, allowing the hints of a smile to brush his lips.

Slowly, measuredly, Jim brings up his other hand to draw fingers across the expanse of Spock's palm, tracing his way up the fingers.

"You're smiling," Jim murmurs almost too low to hear as he watches the soft knot of their fingers.

The quirk of Spock's lips steepens and he nods in enraptured response. Pulsing with abstract thoughts and feelings that seem to glow beneath his skin, Spock feels something true and genuine seep from Jim's fingers to fill all the wayward hollows and creases left by time and torment and self-accusation.

Under his touch, he feels again that familiar drumbeat—freedom, freedom.

"It's not your fault," Jim replies automatically, moving with the sway of vague thought and raw emotion that feeds through their connection. "And they're not your responsibility." He pauses to clutch Spock's hands tight in both his own. "And I can't do this without you."

"Jim," Spock breaths, and the word falls from his lips like silver. Jim's eyes soften and widen and the blue all but glows. He wraps his arms around Spock's shoulders, pulling Spock back to him with a tender, wanton tug, nudging their lips together with a playfulness indigenous to himself and Spock and feel Jim smiling against his mouth—is keenly aware of his wayward fingers that wander up to trace the line of his ear.

Spock shivers: tugs Jim by the waist so he's pressed against him. Jim's mouth moves away a fraction of an inch to let the laugh escape. His fingers play across the contours of Spock's ear.

"I've always wanted to do that," he laughs.

Something like a grin quirks the corners of Spock's mouth and he buries his nose in the crook of Jim's neck.

"You are most illogical, Jim," Spock murmurs against the skin of his throat, reveling in the way it makes Jim grip him tighter.

"Goes double for you," Jim says breathily, nosing Spock's ear and stealing the witty response from the Vulcan's mouth.

Jim runs into Bones on the way to his quarters, surrounded in the buzz of the leftover high.

"You look damn pleased with yourself," Bones comments dryly. "I take it you two finally kissed and made up?"

A panicked, nervous giggle sort of knee-jerk reaction takes hold, and Jim freezes where he stands. It's only after another beat, where he takes in the typically cantankerous demeanor of the doctor and the general innocence to the statement, that he expels the lungful of air he's been holding.

"Yep," he chimes—a bit breathlessly and all too cheerily, "All patched up."

"Happy to hear it, Jim," McCoy says slowly, nodding farewell to his friend.

Watching Jim walk away, Bones is struck with the sense that he's stumbled upon something he really didn't want to hear about.

Damn it, he's a doctor—he doesn't have time for these things!


	4. Of Enormous Consequence

**A/N: YOU ALL THOUGHT I WAS DEAD, DIDN'T YOU? DIDN'T YOU! HA. YOU WERE _WRONG_.**

**Anywho-it's been a criminally long time since I last updated and this chapter is a criminally short recompence for that, but I have been horribly busy these last few months and am submiting this chapter partially as an apology for my getting so far behind. The next chapter will be much longer, I promise you-but I won't promise you a time frame. So here is something for you to chew on until I can come back with the full meal.**

**Again, so so sorry for taking so long and even sorrier for not giving you a huge fat chapter like you deserve, but the end is nearing! We can't be more than two chapters away! Onwaaaaard!**

* * *

_**Chapter Four**_

_**Of Enormous Consequence**_

* * *

Despite being docked, most of the crew of the Enterprise remains stationed on the ship. The most obvious reason might be that, with the half-constructed state of the colony, the Enterprise was a much better home than a tent. Jim might explain that it serves as a precaution to keep them in instantaneous contact with Starfleet should something go amiss. Spock would contest that the more logical prospect is so they might act quickly in case of crisis. Any crew member with a working set of eyes would explain that it's so the Captain can swiftly blow New Vulcan out of the sky should a single hair go missing from Spock's head.

But, of course, diverse a crew as it is, there _are_ a fair plenty that _don't_ have eyes.

Jim reports to the bridge early in the morning—a habit that has become a soothing routine. It helps to see everyone before the tortures of the day begin. Today has a special agenda in the works, as he intends to present himself yet again to the Vulcan High Council in attempts to, once again, sway their narrow minded thinking to take in the big picture—and the dangers that picture suggests.

The bridge seems in a state of mid-hibernation. Uhura lounges unexpectantly at communications. Sulu props his chin on the Navigation board. Chekov spins lackluster circles in his swivel chair. Spock—immune to human lethargy—buzzes around various stations to busy himself, but Jim doubts he has, in truth, much of anything to be checking on.

The springtime wakefulness washes like a wave over the crew when Uhura jolts to life at her station. She presses the earpiece closer to her ear and, in a buckling voice says, "I'm sorry, could you please repeat that?"

Chekov halts mid-rotation; Sulu straightens up and turns to watch Uhura's expressions; Spock's ears perk while he remains engrosses in invented busy-work.

"One moment, please." Uhura turns in her chair to face Spock, something dark and vacant occupying her expression. "Spock—I think you ought to hear this." She passes the earpiece to him.

He slides it over his ear with a grave, Vulcanesque expression. "This is Commander Spock. What seems to be the problem?" After a brief moment of murmurings from the earpiece, utter stillness snakes its way up Spock's bones. Briefly—and so subtly, even Jim almost misses the flash—his face contorts with horrified pain.

"Understood," he says, and the words are too stiff, too heavy, too unhuman. "I will beam down momentarily." As he returns the earpiece to Uhura, Jim moves to his side.

_Not in front of the crew_, Jim has to remind himself—although it should be noted that all of the crew members currently on the bridge happened to possess eyes. Regardless, his hand on Spock's shoulder still lingered too long, his grip still clutched too tight.

"What is it, Spock?"

In spite of his promise to beam down immediately, Spock seems to be having trouble getting his limbs to move. He stands rigidly, pressing his fingers into the seams of his pants.

"The head member of the Vulcan High Council…" He trails off.

"Assasinated." Kirk says, and it is not a question. He crouches by the body to examine the damage. The neck has been cleanly broken, if there is such a thing. His head twists almost gracefully just a few inches too far. His long Vulcan neck makes an elegant line from his jaw to his shoulders, its pale surface marred by an expansive green bruise just beneath the flesh.

A makeshift tent has been erected around the body, but the truth of the matter is clear enough. He was killed, in broad daylight, walking in the open air.

"It's my fault," the only Vulcan in the tent informs him. He is young and lanky and has far too much emotion tainting his voice to be considered proper by Vulcan standards. "I should not have indulged him. He just—he was so fond of his morning walks, I never thought to—"

Jim cuts him off before the rising tenor of his tone disgraces him by making his voice crack, and a tiny softening of the Vulcan's eyes tells Jim he is relieved. "It has nothing to do with you. This isn't your fault, it's theirs—and, believe me, I _will_ make them pay for it, if it means bringing the whole of Starfleet down on their heads."

"Thank you," the Vulcan says, with a weak quirk of the mouth that is almost a smile.

Jim nods and dismisses himself from the tent to stand beside Spock. Stance erect, shoulders back, hands clasped tightly behind him, he is almost the man who stands on the bridge on better days and remarks about the logical or illogical nature of whatever stunt it is they are about to pull.

But he looks older—weighed down with sorrow he is not allowed to fully realize or express. Exhaustion has crept into his eyes, if not into his demeanor. Jim knows the feeling all to well.

The last hours passed much too slowly. After leaving the Enterprise it took at least an hour's worth of bickering and rank-pulling and "negotiating" to get anywhere near the body, in spite of their summons to the place. The invitation was apparently only extended to Spock and his Vulcan bloodline, and it took a large amount of authority and irritated charm for Jim to will them to let him through as well. Apparently something to do with their culture was in question.

Jim, of course, had immediately brought up the fact that their culture could no longer afford to exclude round-ears or red-bloods or pink-bloods or no-ears or whatever the hell else they felt the need to racially estrange. He worded it more diplomatically—he thinks—but the meaning was relatively the same.

Then there were the hours spent interrogating every last person who even _could_ have been near the site of the crime, and that was slow and monotonous and maddening because no one knew anything, and if anyone did they weren't talking.

Spock had stepped into the tent to look at the body only once, and had stayed for only a brief period of time. Since then, he had stood vigil outside the tent while Jim searched the body for clues and made small-talk with the deceased's distraught son.

Outside of the closed quarters, Jim allows his fingers to ghost across Spock's elbow before settling across his back. The muscles there are bunched together, and Jim draws his thumb soothingly across them.

"I'm sorry, Spock." It's all he can think to say.

"It is illogical for you to apologize, Captain. It is in no way your fault, and there is little you could have done to circumvent it. We could not have predicted that the rogue group would move so fast."

"Call me Jim—_please._" A slight smile creases his face. "And I'm not apologizing because it's my fault, I'm apologizing because I know it must be hard for you. I'm sorry that you're in pain."

There is a pause. "The Human culture is most illogical, Jim."

Jim's grin spreads to genuine. "That it is, Spock. That it is."

* * *

**A/N: Reviews make me want to write more... *hinthinthinthint* :)**


	5. Civil War

**A/N: HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS, I AM SO FREAKING SORRY. School has been INSANE. And between theatre and college applications, I have had NO time for ANYTHING.**

**Plus NaNoWriMo reared its head and swallowed my November whole. But I have no excuses. As I said before, I SWEAR to you guys I'm not abandoning this story.**

**This was meant to be the last chapter and just go on until the end, but I wanted to post SOMETHING so I'm breaking it up into two chapters. I can't tell you when the next one will be, but I PROMISE it WILL be here! A HUUUUUGE thank you to all of you beautiful people who have stuck with me through all my procrastination. I adore you guys 3**

* * *

**_Chapter 5_**

**_Civil War_**

Jim's thumb draws lazy circles over Spock's shoulder. He presses his cheek into the ruffled mess of Spock's less-than-perfect hair and kneads his fingers through the taut muscles in the small of the Vulcan's back. They've sat this way for almost an hour: Spock's nose pressed into the crook of Jim's neck, breathing in authority and rebellion and freedom. Breathing in Jim from his place on the cot in Jim's quarters.

All that time and Spock's shoulders haven't managed to relax. His eyes keep peeled wide, watching the hairs on the nape of Jim's neck and the shifting muscles of his throat.

Jim hums and coddles and murmurs consolation that can't quite penetrate past Spock's wall.

"Spock," he breathes, shifting and tightening so that his loose grip on Spock's torso becomes a fierce hug. Spock's face crushes into the hollow between Jim's throat and shoulder and he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think. "Talk to me, Spock."

When Jim loosens up enough for Spock to find his mouth, he murmurs, "I know of nothing I can say." His long fingers drift up to fist in Jim's captain's uniform, searching for purchase in his avalanche of foreign emotion.

"Are you angry?" Jim prompts, nuzzling against the side of Spock's head. "Are you sad?" He reaches for Spock's long fingers, taking them one at a time into his hand. Spock suppresses a shiver against the sensation and he sags against Jim.

"I am... empty. I am watching my race dissolve in front of my very eyes, on a soil which is not our own." A very Kirk-like wave of pride prevents him from mentioning how very alone he feels among his own kind.

Jim closes his eyes and kisses him—on his temple, on his ear, down the tense line of his neck to the stiff shock of his shoulders. He lifts Spock's fingers up to draw kisses across the palm of his hand. Spock sighs and sinks into the touch.

With each peck of Jim's lips comes a brief spike of emotion—comfort, sorrow, sympathy, affection. He nuzzles into Spock's hand, holding it against his face with his own and smiling against the curve of his thumb.

Spock shivers and sits back to look at Jim more closely.

Beside Spock's off-green, Jim's cheek looks childishly pink. He looks soft and warm and glows against the cool touch of Spock's flesh. As a distant punctuation to the silence, Spock can feel the drumbeat, pounding _freedom_ through the cavities of Jim's chest.

Spock's other hand lifts to rest against that chest, which rises and falls beneath his fingers. He can't remember when his eyes fell closed, but Jim's voice—only centimeters from his ear—comes as a surprise. He feels Jim's fingers snake up his thigh and fights back the moan that rises in his throat.

"You really need to relax," Jim says into his ear, before diving in and nipping at it. His lips swoop down to the skin of Spock's neck, leaving sloppy, searing kisses in their wake. He sucks yellow-green bruises into the skin at the base of his throat while his hands inch the uniform and undershirt higher up the Vulcan's torso.

Jim's fingers feel delicious there—against his skin, pulsing freedom through his ribs. He tugs at Jim's own uniform, and after having lifted Spock's blues over his head, Jim obliges in removing his own command gold.

He falls against Spock, chest to chest and hip to hip. Heat swells around them: hot as, hotter than, Vulcan. Than New Vulcan. Than the sun. Spock's hips buck against him and sensation radiates out, exciting a groan from both sets of frenzied lips.

Jim works his way down Spock's chest with kisses and nips and nuzzles. He draws his tongue over the smooth skin of Spock's stomach and revels in the shuddering release of breath he earns for it.

His hands grip the top of Spock's thighs, thumbs rubbing circles against the fabric. Spock bucks again and Jim presses him into the mattress. He raises his head, speaking just over the seam of Spock's pants.

"Hey Spock?" He says.

Spock's head is thrown back, neck strained in a graceful arc. His adam's apple bobs in response.

A sloppy smile plasters itself across Jim's lips. "Just so you know, I'm kind of in love with you." He presses his lips—firm and affectionate—to the flesh just above Spock's pants line. Spock all but purrs—and bucks again, and tangles his fingers in Jim's hair. Emotion flashes back and forth between them, hazed by desire and hunger and heat.

The bridge doesn't see them again for quite some time.

The two imprisoned Vulcan rebels are put to death in the early hours of the morning—put to death without trial, without warning. Put to death without so much as a "heads-up" sent Kirk's way.

When he screams and shouts and bellows his way into the council's meeting place just a few hours too late, he is met with impassive, unapologetic faces that stare out at him from behind sheets of ice.

"What were you _thinking_?" He roars. Spock lopes in beside, just a step or two behind his captain. He takes hold of Jim's wrist.

Sarek thinks for a moment that Spock will reprimand Kirk for his brashness—thinks that Spock will illuminate the logical course of action for the poor human. But the touch lasts only an instant, and stands to be one of solidarity rather than disapproval.

An aged Vulcan woman has taken the high chancellor's seat at the front of the formation. She peers down at him from behind the shadow of sunken brows, eyes peering out around the sharp angles of her cheekbones. Her long fingers gnarl together on the desk before her and she shakes her head.

"We do not answer to you, James T. Kirk."

Jim opens his mouth, but Spock answers for him. "He is the _captain_ of the starship Enterprise and represents the whole of the Federation in his presence here. The Federation you _do_ answer to—unless you intend to make an enemy of it as well."

Her eyebrows raise and she looks on at Spock with a smug sort of triumph. "You speak as though you are not one of us, Spock."

Spock averts his eyes for only a second, turning them to his boots. "Starfleet has always been much more a home than Vulcan to me." It is here that his eyes raise to meet her in fearless defiance. "And what has gone on here has been enough to prove to me that New Vulcan will never be home."

The woman's indignation allows her to fool herself out of the truth staring her in the face. "You would let a handful of rebels deter you from your own race? How shallow your loyalties truly lie."

Jim looks over to see the lines deepen around Sarek's mouth.

Spock shakes his head. "It is not the rebel's actions to which I am repulsed. The Vulcan High Council that I remember did not spend their days quarreling amongst themselves; they did not strike out for vengeance. You have brought the fate of this planet down upon your own heads. You did not even need Nero to help you."

He turns and leaves—his brusque walk carrying him from the room before any of its other occupants can collect enough thought to form a coherent sentence.

A few moments after the door closes behind Spock, Sarek rises to his feet.

"Spock is right. This is a mockery."

"They're going to try to kill you." Kirk breaks through the moment. He crosses his arms over his chest and puffs out a weary breath. "This is a war. As of this morning, you've started a bloodbath."

The new head of the council raps her knuckles on the desk and barks, "Yes, you've told us that—now what do you want us to do about it, _Captain_."

Kirk can't help but be taken aback. Never has he heard so much emotion in the voice of a pure-bred Vulcan—certainly never from an elder.

Kirk also can't help but be a smartass—it's just what he does.

"Careful there—you're starting to sound almost human."

The first casualty of New Vulcan's first civil war comes just a little before what, by Earth standards, would be considered high noon. The first casualty is a quiet one. Unintroduced, unprovoked, unexplained.

The first casualty is a child, his body laid out prone and bloodless: a dark emerald bruise yellowing his off-kilter neck. He dies eyes open. He dies too soon.

He dies where few walk past. They don't find him for another hour—not until the rigor mortis has set in and the blood has settled and bruised on his back.

Kirk and Spock stand off to one side and watch a _Vulcan_ mother cry. They watch a society on the fringe of utter collapse.

Jim turns to Spock and lets their fingers brush. "This is war, Spock," he says, and stairs without speaking until Spock meets his eyes. "These people can't handle a war."

Spock levels his gaze on him with a look oddly calm and dignified—so very close to the man Jim usually sees in him. "Then we will have to cut it off at the roots, Captain."

"Jim." He smiles and draws a hand over Spock's back.

The corner of Spock's mouth twitches up. "Jim."

Kirk flips open his communicator. "Hey, Scotty? We're gonna need you to beam down everyone you can spare. Something tells me things are about to get ugly."

"Rumor has it there's been a death, Cap'n—sounds to me like it already has." There's a sigh and brief static from the other end. "I'll send 'em your way soon as I can. Be patient, though—it's gonna take some time."

"Thanks, Scotty."

"Aye, Cap'n. Just doin' me job."

By the time they've finished beaming, there is a group of around fifty—enough to equal the Vulcans in number, but not in strength. The group mills about nervously, fresh ensigns gripping their phasers and veterans doing what they can to look calm.

Spock leans in to murmur, "It would appear to me that we will require the assistance of Takar's men."

Jim groans. "I know, I _know—_I just, gah! I just want an unbiased third party but we can't—these Vulcans are... _violent_. I've never seen Vulcans like these—I don't know what to _do_."

"There must be logic left, but we'll have to find it."

"You're still planning on reasoning with them?"

"Would you kill them instead? The very last seeds of a dying race?"

Kirk's eyes go wide and he fumbles at a loss for words. "Christ, Spock, I never—I didn't even—_shit_!" He waves his arms and mumbles curses until he feels a little better. "I hadn't even thought of that."

"We have very few options."

"If we fight, we run the risk of lessening the chance of species survival."

"And if we do nothing, the race will cannibalize itself."

"Damn it—stop talking in circles!"

Spock sighs and lays a hand on Jim's shoulder. "I'm saying we should tread lightly, but without fear."

In a hurried gesture only Spock would understand, Jim taps two fingers to the Vulcan's chest. "Let's do this thing then, huh?" He grins—that familiar, cocky, confident, arrogant trademark grin that hangs sloppily on his face.

Spock nods and smiles.

With Takar's group added into the mix, they make a militia of around a hundred. Jim crosses his arms and levels a glare at Takar.

"Let me make this perfectly clear. Your men are to stay in the background unless _I_ say otherwise. You're there to be extra support should things turn ugly. I do _not_ want to see any one of your men instigating fights. We're trying _not_ to start a war."

Takar prickles. "Well, in case you haven't noticed, you've already got one."

Kirk's eyes narrow. "Are we clear?"

"It sounds to me as if you're suggesting that my men can't control themselves-"

"Are. We. Clear?"

Something like a snarl escapes Takar's lips, unchecked. "Crystal."

"Good. That's all. Make sure your men are in order." Jim turns away from Takar before he has the time to form his furious response. After staring a few seconds with enraged disbelief at the back of Kirk's head, he turns on his heel and joins his men. Not soon after, McCoy makes his way over to captain and first officer.

"Damn it, Jim—I don't agree with this," he barks. "You're putting lives at risk and over what? A social dispute? Let the green-blooded bastards figure it out for themselves; it isn't our place!"

Jim shakes his head. "'Course it's our place, Bones. We can't leave things like this."

"And you're just a little biased on the subject, don't you think, Jim?" Bones can't help the sideways glance he casts at Spock. One slanted eyebrow lifts.

Jim gawks. "What's that supposed to mean?"

McCoy scoffs and waves a hand. "You're all idiots. Listen, I've got a medical team standing by if you need me."

"Let's hope we don't."


End file.
